Auður Ólafsdóttir - The Greenhouse

Once I’ve finished eating I can go off to take a look at the village. It’s actually starting to get dark, but nevertheless I take two trips up and down the main street. After two rounds I’m already starting to meet the same people again. The street is bustling with life. I imagine all the villagers stroll up and down this main street after dinner. The language is totally alien to me. I literally don’t understand a single word; it all goes over my head.

My perception of the passersby as mere bodies disturbs me, and if it doesn’t change it could become a real barrier to me developing any normal communication with these people and prevent me from learning their language. I carefully make sure I don’t bump into anyone, though; I wouldn’t know how to apologize to anyone in this new language. Mom was all into physical contact and always held some part of me when we were talking together. I found it difficult to stand still as a kid, always on the go.

— You’re so restless and sprightly, she might have said.

I think I must have established eye contact with about eight women on my four strolls up and down the main street, with maybe one or two of them that I could think of sleeping with, if the opportunity were to present itself. These thoughts are more like precocious impulses, however, like faulty fireworks that refuse to go off.

In the square in front of the church, two steps away from the guesthouse, there’s a phone booth. I decide to see if it works and find out how Dad’s doing and just let him know I’m still in one piece.

Talking to Dad isn’t easy. I’ve barely said hello to him and he’s already worried about the price of the call and starting to say good-bye to me.

— Are you all right there, Lobbi?

— Yeah, fine, I just wanted to let you know I’ve reached my destination.

He doesn’t beat about the bush.

— Do you not like the town?

— No, it’s fine, a bit remote maybe, but I’ve got my own room.

— Is it a reliable room, Lobbi?

For a moment I ponder on what Dad might mean by a “reliable room,” if it’s in a solidly constructed building with a secure lock or that kind of thing. Whether it can withstand an earthquake maybe? He rewords his question:

— Is the landlord trustworthy? I hope he’s not trying to con a young foreigner out of his hard-earned money made from braving the elements in the clutches of the sea?

— No, no, it’s fine. I’m staying in a guesthouse owned by the monastery and have free food and lodging. The priest lives in the room next door.

— Is he a trustworthy person?

— Yes, Dad, very trustworthy, he’s very interested in films and speaks every language under the sun.

— So you’re not homesick then?

— No, not at all. Of course, I’ve only been here three hours.

— You’re not broke yet?

— No, no, I have everything I need.

— You still have your mother’s inheritance money.

— Yeah, I know that.

— I looked in on your daughter and her mother the other day.

— Really?

— You don’t mind me popping in to see my granddaughter?

— No, I say.

I feel a bit uneasy about it, but can’t say I’m against it.

— She’s beautiful, the little girl, the spitting image of your mother. Same birthday.

He doesn’t mention the date of her death.

— There’s a long history of blond hair in the family. Your mother told me that your great grandfather was very blond, with golden locks. They were slow to change color, which gave him a boyish look, with delicate facial features well into middle age. So the girls didn’t really fancy him much, not until later in life.

— So my daughter takes after her father’s side of the family?

— Yeah, you could say that.

Once I’m in bed, under clean sheets with a book about the language that’s spoken around here, I feel terribly lonely. To be honest, I don’t know what possessed me to come to this forsaken village. I adjust my pillow and lie down so that I can see the black night through the window. It’s a full moon as far as I can make out. I check out the celestial vault: as to be expected, the moon is terrifyingly big and too close. My home stars have vanished from the sky and aren’t shining anywhere; they’ve been replaced by shooting stars and unknown constellations, new incomprehensible patterns in the black firmament.

Then I start to make out a peculiar sound coming through the headrest, an engine noise like that of a boat, very muffled voices, a silence, and then people talking rapidly together in disagreement. It’s followed by beautiful music. I sit up and try to locate the sound, I’m pretty sure it’s coming from the room next door. I prick up my ears but can’t identify the language; I think it could even be Chinese. In any case it’s clear that Father Thomas is watching some gem of a movie in his room.

I must have fallen asleep too early because it’s only six a.m. and I’m wide awake. Resounding peals are announcing the early morning mass, and I can see the centuries-old bell right outside my window. What seemed like a quiet guesthouse turns out to be located right next door to the main building of the church.

I slip into my trousers and sweater. I might as well go out, since I’m awake anyway. I pull up the top of my hooded sweater and step into the violet dawn. There isn’t a soul in sight, and the café is closed. A peculiar red-bluish mist hangs over the village. I walk toward the source of the ringing coming from within the building that I now realize is attached to the guesthouse. The church entrance looks like any other door on the street. The facade gives nothing away of what lies within. In retrospect, I think the beggar was kneeling there somewhere in the dark last night. Did I give him some coins or not? Did I use all my change to call Dad from the phone booth or did I give it to the beggar then? It’s suddenly important to me.

I glance around and there’s no one around. I squeeze through the door where I follow a maze of corridors and twisted passageways until I reach another door. I open it and suddenly find myself in a large church; the stone gives off a cold, moist smell and an enormous space opens up before me, an entire vault of colored lights that makes me gasp and remove my hood. It’s like stepping through the narrow mouth of a cave and discovering an entire palace of stalactite and Iceland spar. I step out of the twilight of the alleyway straight into the sunrise in the church. A mass is beginning, and a shaft of sunrays tighten on the chancel in a glowing golden light. Father Thomas glances at me; there are another eleven monks in the church with him dressed in white robes. An agonizing Christ hangs on a dark wooden cross high above the altar, and colorful paintings adorn all the walls. I take one tour and look around. Even though I can’t figure out all the scenes depicted in the paintings, I recognize some of the saints. I pause a moment in front of a statue of Saint Joseph and then move toward a painting of Mary on a throne with the baby Jesus. What draws my attention to it is that the infant has golden hair, three blond curls on its forehead, not unlike my daughter’s, fresh out of the bath when I was saying good-bye to her and her mother. Examining the painting even closer, I can’t help seeing other similarities between my daughter and the child in the picture: the shape of the face, the big bright eyes, the same flowery mouth, nose, chin; even the dimples are the same, no matter which way I look at it. The painting looks old; there’s a crack in it and one of Mary’s sleeves has probably recently been restored, the blue color isn’t the same below the elbow.